Andromache
by Reality's Runaway
Summary: Artemisia relives a dark moment in her past and questions her role as the Queen of the Amazons.


Andromache

Artemisia held the small, wriggling bundle in her arms, trying in every way to give off an aura of innocuousness to ease the babe's tense mother. It was a futile attempt, though. Andromache seemed to be all anxiety and nothing else.

_I can hardly blame her. Her husband faces almost certain death every day._

With such a weight upon Hector's shoulders to command the troops, win battles, and survive them to lead the kingdom after Priam's death, Artemisia figured he had more to be tense about than his wife. If it was her job to comfort her husband and provide diversion after a tough day, she probably was not doing a very good job of it. And now she had more cause for concern—a helpless child that would certainly be among the first to be slaughtered if the Acheans ever got through the Trojan walls.

_By the gods, she doesn't even look like she's breathing. I am not going to eat him!_

Artemisia almost contemplated pretending to drop little Astyanax just to witness the severity of his mother's response—it would undoubtedly be quite the sight. The Warrior Queen dismissed the notion, though, not feeling in a joking mood, nor wanting to cause unnecessary panic to the otherwise agreeable woman.

As she tried to ignore Andromache's worried glances, Artemisia smiled and cooed at the little boy she was holding—the youngest prince of Troy. Astyanax was less than a year old, but he already bore Hector's dark head of curls, and his strong grip on her finger reminded Artemisia of the man he would become. The little babe certainly had some big armor to fill.

Andromache's concern did not wane, even as dinner was served, but Artemisia had grown accustomed to her watchful eye and otherwise inconspicuous nudges at Hector to assure her that there was no reason to worry. Artemisia had to admit that she had never held an infant boy this old before in her life. As she had so painfully explained to Helen, little boys did not last long in Amazon lands, either dying swiftly at the hand of a sword or being smothered by their mothers who found it less painful to kill the babes themselves immediately after birth, rather than grow attached only to see them beheaded a short while later. Artemisia herself had committed many of these murders—which even she admitted they were—many times having to fight the mother to relinquish the child.

Her mind raced back many months ago to Efterpi's first baby. Efterpi had spent her pregnancy rubbing and talking to her large stomach, as if comforting the small babe within. The girl refused to fight, hunt, or otherwise risk injury to herself, acting like a ridiculous newlywed instead of the Amazon warrior she was. The other women rolled their eyes at her antics, telling her that for all her silliness the gods would surely send her a boy, but Efterpi ignored them. Artemisia recalled one chilly, rainy night. The seventeen-year-old crawled into her bed and shook her gently awake.

"Give me your hand," she said softly, as if not wanting to break the fragile excitement she undoubtedly felt. Artemisia groggily gave her hand over with her head still buried in her blanket, believing this to be another one of Efterpi's hallucinations of late. But when the girl gently placed the queen's hand on her wet belly, Artemisia felt something almost unbelievable—a slight movement, a weak kicking almost. She had pulled her hand back in shock, bringing her head up to look into Efterpi's thrilled eyes.

"She's awake," the girl said, baby-talking her stomach, "She's telling me that she is going to be the strongest, the boldest, and the most fearsome Amazon the world has ever seen."

"I am not worried yet," Artemisia replied, deciding to amuse the girl—although she knew it was dangerous to encourage Efterpi's unusual behavior. "She still has a while to cook, and quite a while before she can hold a sword; then we will see what a warrior she makes."

"Oh she will be a warrior alright," Efterpi assured her while making herself quite at home for the night on the small pallet, "A warrior her queen can be proud of—unlike her silly mother."

Tears immediately welled up in Artemisia's eyes. As much as they probably hurt Efterpi to utter them, they nearly sliced her own heart in two. Efterpi had never been much of a warrior, never strong with the sword or adept with the bow, but Artemisia did not think she had ever been openly critical of the flippant girl—or that Efterpi was keen enough to interpret Artemisia's subtle displays of annoyance.

She pulled near to the young girl, wrapping her arm around her and placing her hand on the warm belly, falling asleep to the touch of Efterpi's small babe and the sound of the ominous rain pouring outside.

In the end, the very same hands that felt those first kicks so many weeks before were the very ones to hold the sword that sent the little boy across the River Acheron. He put up a good fight entering the world, nearly killing his mother—but it was Efterpi that nearly killed herself trying to save him from his bloody departure from it. That night, Artemisia herself carried the tiny pale body and the little round head through the rain across the mountains, to the far side where the bones of so many little warriors were laid to rest. None of them were hers, but she could still hear their cries, still hear their gurgles as she laid them on the white stone near Artemis' shrine—the marble irreversibly sullied by the blood of decades and decades' worth of male babes.

The intimidating Warrior Queen buried Pavlos, the name she had given the vulnerable, small babe, covering him and a few of her unwelcome tears with the earth, praying not only for the babe's protection in the afterlife, but for Efterpi's forgiveness.

Efterpi seemed to recover well, continuing to be as silly as before, if for no other reason that to mask her sorrow. She even resolved to be the warrior she had so hoped her child would become—a warrior that the queen could be proud of, at least when the queen was able to set aside the girl's childish behavior. Efterpi was now among Artemisia's personal guard and most trusted warriors. Strangely, Artemisia was more touched by little Pavlos than his mother had been. She continued to be the same no-nonsense leader, showing neither weakness nor timidity, but in the quiet of the night, in the solitude of her morning hunts, the Warrior Queen wondered at herself. She questioned if she was fit for her position as ruler and commander of the most fearsome warriors in the world—she could not imagine Hippolyta crying over an infant boy, or comforting a lovesick girl in the middle of the night, or feeling such sympathy for the women whose babies were stripped violently from their arms.

A drop of a dinner platter woke Artemisia from her reverie. Little Astyanax was breathing soft, helpless baby breaths, asleep in the arms of the ruthless Amazon and ignorant of the past foul deeds of the very hands that rubbed his head so tenderly. All the while, Andromache was still watching disconcertedly. Artemisia glanced at Efterpi, who was heeding her queen's order to not drink a drop of wine after her drunken revels the night before. The girl was lost in conversation and no doubt the hoots of laughter coming from that end of the table could be attributed to her storytelling talent. Helen was speaking affably with Obelia and Maia—Paris and Deiphobus arguing over which of their Amazon guests was the most beautiful.

"What does that feel like?"

Artemisia turned suddenly to Zeva at her right.

"What?"

"What does that feel like?" Zeva repeated, acknowledging the little sleeping bundle in Artemisia's arms.

After a moment of thought she replied, smiling, "Peaceful."

"He's so small. So fragile. You know, queen, you could probably crush his skull with one hand if you tried." She held up her own hand, analyzing it, "Actually, I probably could do, come to think of it. I did it with a baby deer once."

Zeva was never a low-talker, nor one to harbor any reservations about speaking candidly, and Andromache certainly heard that musing over the loud din in the room.

"Zeva!" Artemisia whispered between bared teeth, "His mother is right across the table!"

"Are you kidding? She can't hear me." But when the warrior glanced at the now eerily pale woman, she quickly turned back to the queen with her hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh, "Oh, silly me."

Always one for a bit of fun, even when sober, Zeva reached for the sleeping boy, taking him surprisingly gently from Artemisia, who did not want to cause another disturbance.

_Andromache is going to swoon!_

"What are you doing?" Artemisia whispered.

"I want to see what it feels like," Zeva replied with a smirk.

Andromache now had Hector glancing at the woman who now held their precious son. Artemisia, the queen and leader, was one thing, but letting a battle-clothed, fully armed Amazon handle the small boy was another. Artemisia could see Helen and Paris staring, too, curious to see how the strange woman would handle her temporary motherly role.

_How ironic._

Only Artemisia and Maia knew, but Zeva had birthed all five of her children without assistance, and had personally broken all three of the male infants' necks before anyone had even realized she had gone into labor.

"What a sight!" the equally candid Deiphobus suddenly shouted above the chatter in the room, "A one-breasted, baby-killing Amazon rocking an infant—and a boy at that! What a sight!"

   

Artemisia breathed a sigh of relief when dinner was finally over—and when Deiphobus had been escorted out of the hall in a drunken rage. Zeva, still holding Astyanax, barely had time to stand from the table before Andromache was on her, obviously eager to save her son from the danger she had been made increasingly aware of throughout the evening.

"Did you enjoy dinner? Was the food to your liking?" the hesitant princess inquired, apparently trying not to sound too inhospitable.

"Your highness need not worry about the quality of the meal," Artemisia broke in, after coming behind Zeva, "I know I speak for all my women when I say it was delicious."

Andromache wa wringing her hands— unconsciously, Artemisia guessed—while attempting a sincere smile and thanking the Warrior Queen for her compliment. Artemisia grinned at the princess who, despite her blatant nervousness, still seemed wary of offending her intimidating guests.

So characteristically of her, Zeva thrust the sleeping bundle out to his mother with one hand, holding onto the fabric of his swaddling clothes and letting him hang, like a decapitated head being held by the hair. To soothe the anxious mother who had quickly scooped up the child, tightly pressing him to her breast, she offered classic Zeva consolation.

"Don't worry highness, he's a little too big for me to crush without quite a bit of effort—besides, I'm in a good mood right now. This Trojan hospitality gives me no desire to do anything Amazonian at the present."

Zeva gave Andromache a firm pat on the back, sending her nearly falling forward. Artemisia and Zeva then smiled and bowed to Andromache, both trying not to laugh watching the blood drain from the princess' face as they turned to follow Hector out the door.

"Well, we won't be seeing anymore of Astyanax thanks to you," Artemisia punched Zeva when they were outside, on their way to the stables to see the legendary Trojan horses for themselves.

"Good. Maybe they'll take him to the farthest room in the palace and I won't have to hear his incessant crying anymore. The little bastard."

The Warrior Queen smiled and agreed wholeheartedly. But inwardly, she could not help feeling a slight pain in her chest. The cries she heard at night were not those of Astyanax—they were the cries of all the little bastards lying dead on the far side of the mountains.


End file.
